A Hiding Place for Weary Men
by Sidney Sussex
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, Lestrade writes letters that he knows Sherlock will never read.  Rated for language.  De-anon from kinkmeme.
1. Chapter 1

_I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC._

_If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome._

_Special thanks to ImpishTubist and Catch18 for having read this over for me. While awesomeness comes from them, all of the "argh" bits are my own fault._

_De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:_

_"L/S, Reichenbach epistolary prompt: All through the Hiatus, Lestrade keeps a diary in which each entry is addressed to Sherlock. He doesn't write in it every day, rather on anniversary dates (their first meeting, their first case, birthdays, etc.) The last entry is written by Sherlock."_

* * *

><p><span>11 May<span>

Sherlock.

It's a week since John got back. Do you know why I'm telling you that? Because I want you to know exactly how long it's taken me to get to the point where I'm _only_ furious with you and not so utterly livid that if I could, I'd come over to Baker Street and shake some bloody sense into you myself.

Have you got _any_ idea, Sherlock, any at all, what this is doing to John? Did you stop for even a moment to think about the effect your bloody stupid decisions would have on other people? John hasn't said a word to me, not one, since he got off the plane and told me you'd gone.

That's how he said it, too, you know. "He's gone," all hollow-eyed and like the words barely fit out of his mouth. I was there, Sherlock, waiting for you, waiting for you to get off that plane behind him and make him send me a text to let me know you'd both arrived, waiting for you to make a fuss in the customs line by deducing things about the officers, like you always do, don't deny it, I've watched you. I was _waiting for you_, and you didn't even have the courtesy to warn me.

What the bloody hell have you done to me, Sherlock? I've written letters like this before. They make you do it, you know, if one of the officers in your unit is killed in the line of duty. Grief counselling for everyone, and you have to draw pictures, and you have to write letters. Waste of time, stupid, stupid waste of time, and yet here I am, and here's your letter, and d'you know what, Sherlock? This is the third letter like this I've written, and I'm supposed to tell you how I feel about what you did, and I'm supposed to tell you it hurts and that I understand why you did it and that you were the best consulting detective I've ever had and a load of other bollocks that means absolutely _nothing_ but will keep them off my back and let me get back to work. But I'm not, because all I can think of to tell you is how absolutely fucking _furious_ I am with you for what you've done.

Is that normal? That's not normal. I think I'm supposed to cry over you or something. It's not like you were just some officer who happened to work on the same floor as I did – but then again it's not like _you _were ever normal either, and the only way to survive you was to

fuck, I've done it, haven't I? Started using the past tense.

I swear to God, Sherlock, if this turns out to have been some sort of fucking _joke_, I will tear you limb from limb. I will. Don't even _begin_ to imagine I won't.

Why the _hell_ didn't you tell us?

* * *

><p><span>18 May<span>

They had a funeral for you today.

Why am I writing you another letter? I did the one they made me write. I don't need to be doing this anymore.

Truth is, though, I went to your funeral. Memorial, really. No body. And d'you know what? No one there knew you at all. Not one of them. Your landlady, she talked about you; she loved you, you know, but she didn't _know_ you. I don't even know who the others were (your brother came; you wouldn't want to hear about that), but they didn't know you either. John would have, but he didn't come. Said he didn't want to look at all the people who only came because they thought they were supposed to. He was right, I shouldn't have gone.

We all make mistakes.

I'm still angry with you, but I'm angry with all of them as well. They had no right to be there. They didn't know you.

World's full of bastards.

* * *

><p><span>2 June<span>

Sherlock, I'm tired.

I saw John today and we just sat there and looked at each other. He's tired too. He hasn't packed up any of your things. And whatever the yellow stuff was in the big flask, it's green now. Does that mean anything to you? Is it poisonous? It's probably going to explode and take out half a city block one of these nights, isn't it?

We don't talk about you.

* * *

><p><span>15 June<span>

Do you remember what today is, Sherlock? Today is the day I found your bloody stupid arse face-down in a pool of your own blood. Today is the day I picked you up and cleaned you off and you wouldn't let me take you to the station and you tried to do a runner and you fell, of course, because what idiot tries to run in that state? You, because for a proper genius, you're the biggest

I took you home, do you know what that could've done to my career if anyone'd found out? Of course you do, you know everything. But you didn't care, did you, just left a mess in my living room and bloodstains on my couch – they didn't come out, you know, they're _still_ there – and vanished.

And you solved a bloody case while you were at it. While you were high.

Jesus Christ, Sherlock, how many times did we do that before the time you wouldn't wake up? How many times before I had to take time off work, _vacation time_, Sherlock, that I was supposed to be spending on a motorcycle trip or fixing up the flat or damn well _anything_ but trying to pull a complete damn stranger out of some of the worst withdrawal I've ever seen? What were you even on, Sherlock? I never asked, but I know it wasn't just the cocaine. I was with the drugs squad for years, I know what cocaine withdrawal looks like.

You know what? I don't even care. I don't want to know how many times we did that. I don't want to know how many times you ignored _everything I said_ and went off and got high and put rusty fucking needles into your skin and don't tell me they were always clean because I _saw_ you, Sherlock, and there were times when you had no _idea_ what you were doing. I don't want to know how many times I told you never to show up to my crime scenes like that again and yet you'd come in anyway _completely_ bloody chalked because you didn't _care_, Sherlock, about yourself or about me or about the fact that it was _both_ our lives you were destroying.

I don't want to know how many times I had to save you, Sherlock, because it wasn't enough.

* * *

><p><span>7 July<span>

You solved your first case for me clean today, years ago. I mentioned it to John and he said he didn't want to hear about it. He still doesn't talk about you, you know. Come to think of it, neither do I.

John doesn't talk about you because – well, because what the hell would he say? "I had a flatmate once, he's dead now." What the bloody hell is he supposed to do with that? And all he had from you was a bloody letter telling him you _knew ahead of time and didn't tell him_.

You absolute bastard.

I don't talk about you because who is there besides John? "I had an annoying git who solved cases I couldn't once, he's dead now." And then I get sectioned, right? I didn't even get a letter.

Not that you'd have sent one, but it makes me seem even madder for writing this, doesn't it? Sod it, I don't care, it's not like anyone is ever going to read it. I may as well finally take the chance to get an uninterrupted word in.

Do you even realize what you've done to us? We could have helped you, you know. John's twice the shot you are and I'm not completely useless, whatever you may have thought. You could have asked us for help. You could have let us stop you.

Do you even understand that you had friends?

* * *

><p><span>4 August<span>

Three months.

I called John in on a case for me the other day. Medical advice. I know I've got a whole team for that, but they – well, _you_ know, you never worked with them either.

He came, gave me a cause of death, used some of the most colourful language I've ever heard to tell me exactly what he thought of my having called him in the first place. I offered him a job.

Thought he was going to hit me, but he said yes instead.

I still get all the cases no one else wants to deal with. Case-closed record and all that; they think I'm good at this, Sherlock. They think I have some kind of, I don't know, they think I can _do_ this. They have no idea. This cloak-and-dagger thing was all fine when you were here, you know, but

damn me, Sherlock, damn it all to hell, I should have told _everyone_.

Now what? Excuse me, commissioner, sir, but I can't do my own bloody job. I haven't got my _crutch_.

I was a police officer once. A detective, even. Detective Inspector Lestrade, that used to mean something. You'd have scoffed if I'd ever pointed that out to you, that the Met has ranks and that I actually worked my way up through them, that the work I do is actually worth something, or used to be. Of course no one could do what you did, but we did keep the odd criminal in check before you, you know. And then you walked in – stumbled in drugged up and had to be detoxed, but really, who's counting? – and

sod it, Sherlock, this is a stupid letter and I can't say what I bloody mean. Whose idea was it to make the English language so damned useless?

What I mean to say is that you left John without the only life that really mattered, when you left, the bits with running and shouting and taking stupid, ridiculous risks. What I mean to say is that you left the Met, you left us, without our best man, and thank God no one will ever know I said _that_, because there'd be enquiries and awkward excuses and ruffled feathers and – well, basically, it would be just like you'd never left, except that there wouldn't be anyone behind bars after all the fuss.

What I mean to say is that John is not the only one who is

* * *

><p><span>9 September<span>

I had a birthday yesterday. I assume you would have known, the number of times you pickpocketed me for my wallet. D'you know I forgot about it completely? Sally Donovan usually says something, but – I think I scare them now.

They used to look up to me, before you. Maybe even after you showed up, a little. They don't look up to me anymore, and I don't blame them. They used to have a DI; now they have _this_, this useless shell of an authority figure who doesn't have his consulting detective anymore and so now he's calling in half of bloody London to solve cases because he's desperate and useless and why the hell did I ring John when I needed a medical opinion? The Met has an entire department of forensic physicians, but I'm sinking, Sherlock, I've got nothing to hold onto and the cases aren't getting solved and the killers aren't getting caught and the only person sinking with me here is John.

I'm sorry for dragging him down.

What do you care, anyway? You won't be needing him anymore.

In case you couldn't tell, I spent most of yesterday – after I remembered about the birthday – in the company of a bottle of Bowmore. Don't you dare question my taste. If you want to sniff at my choice of drink, come here and bloody well do it to my face.

I'm begging for insults from a dead sociopath.

Jesus, what kind of sorry bastard have you made me?


	2. Chapter 2

13 October

John doesn't know about today. It changed his life, and he doesn't even know. This is when we found the first suicide, Sherlock. You were following that case from the beginning, you _knew_ something wasn't right. You could've given us a bloody hint, only advance warning's _not really your area_, is it?

Opened up the case file for this one the other night. Still isn't completely closed, you know. We have to keep an official tag on it until we know who shot Jeff Hope. You'd laugh at that, if you were here. John'd laugh at that, if you were here.

Don't know why I'm telling you all this.

We're still incompetent as hell over here at the Yard. We still have unsolved cases. We still have people roaming the streets who ought to be locked up or shot.

You should be here.

I haven't been called an idiot in half a year.

Funny, the things you miss.

* * *

><p><span>30 November<span>

Children, Sherlock, bloody _children_. _Nine_ children.

Under the _fucking_ house.

How long were they there, Sherlock? How long did he keep them there? Did they die right there, in the dark in the dirt with the spiders and the worms? Did he kill them somewhere else and put them there?

Did they know, Sherlock, were they scared?

Christ.

I need you.

* * *

><p><span>8 December<span>

Sorry.

This case. And it's getting on for Christmas. The media's in a goddamn frenzy about it – why, Sherlock, why the _hell_ are they so keen on showing _this_ at Christmastime? Doesn't _anyone_ deserve a break from this?

Changed my mind, I'm not sorry. It's not like you're reading this. And anyway, I meant it all.

What does it say about me that the only person I can talk to is a sociopath who would have been delighted by all of this?

What does it say about me that the only person I can talk to is dead?

Maybe I should start going to pub night.

* * *

><p><span>24 December<span>

Christmas Eve. Did you and John celebrate Christmas? I don't even want to know, it was probably something out of a horror movie. You'd be figuring out the most effective poisons to put in the Christmas pudding. John probably knows eleven ways to kill a man with tinsel.

John's at Harry's this year. Probably not killing anyone.

I've got a pile of paperwork I can't see over and _Goldfinger_. Special edition. Christmas as usual, then.

* * *

><p><span>25 December<span>

I bloody miss you, you know?

And not just for the cases, either.

* * *

><p><span>7 January<span>

Your birthday yesterday.

What am I supposed to say?

Went over to John's. When did it become just John's? All your things are still there. He still hasn't moved them. There's dust on them, though, which means at least we're not sorry enough sods to have actually _kept them clean_ like they were ever going to be used again. Maybe we should start running experiments in them. Maybe the idea of our clumsy fingerprints all over your glassware would be enough to bring you back for sheer outrage.

Maybe we should invite Mycroft.

For the record, we got drunk off our arses and watched television and ate Chinese and cursed the day we ever met you, both of us. Mostly that last one. And looked at crime scene photographs, but we're not you, and we didn't solve anything, we just got them all out of order and I've spent bloody ages this morning putting them all back together.

We gave the skull a shot of whisky in your honour. Wouldn't dream of leaving your oldest, best friend out of the fun.

John's not in good shape, Sherlock.

_I'm_ not in good shape.

The skull's doing all right.

* * *

><p><span>30 January<span>

Today's the day you brought John to my crime scene. Today's the day you became Sherlock-and-John. I needed you – I was desperate, Sherlock, four suicides, and when you showed up with a – I don't know, a colleague, a friend? _John_, I had no choice. You knew it, too, you _liked_ it, putting me in that sort of position. And John, he didn't even realize what it was all about. He handled it a damn sight better than I would have expected. Handled _you_.

I suppose today's the day I met John, too, though at the time he was just another one of your challenges. What did you expect me to do? You knew I couldn't back down.

Turns out Sherlock-and-John at a crime scene is a hell of a lot more tolerable than Sherlock at a crime scene. Even if he does shoot the suspect. Not that I'd know anything about that.

Now it's just us. John-and-Lestrade. "John-and-Lestrade, poor sods, did you hear about what happened?" And they look so _damned_ sympathetic, like they understand, like they're so _sorry for our loss_. As if anyone could understand _you_.

Sherlock-and-John. John-and-Lestrade.

When did we become Sherlock-and-Lestrade? Six years, Sherlock. Six years and I saved your bloody _life_ and you saved mine and you got off the drugs and destroyed my flat while you were doing it and idiot that I am, I _let_ you. And you barged in on every case I had, whenever it suited you, and never even had the courtesy to say "oh, by the way, I'm shoving my bloody great oar in." And you went off on your own and you destroyed evidence and it's a bloody miracle you never rendered an entire investigation pointless because ninety-nine percent of what you did was totally inadmissible in court and you _knew_ it when you did it.

And you got away with it anyway, you damned lucky bastard, because I'm soft, and because I was so goddamn desperate.

Six years.

I'm not going to kid myself, Sherlock. I know I never earned your respect. I know I'm not brilliant. Sherlock-and-Lestrade? Ha.

Fucking hell, Sherlock.

I deserved better.

* * *

><p><span>6 February<span>

Thought I saw you today. Honest to God, I almost shouted something at you – at whoever it was. I must be going mad.

No, I went mad years ago. Put up with you, didn't I?

Wrong timing. Not in the mood to joke about you today. You'd think it was ridiculous if you knew what it did to me, thinking I saw you. It was like

Jesus, Sherlock. I miss you like hell.

* * *

><p><span>15 March<span>

What's the point of writing to you anyway?

* * *

><p><span>30 March<span>

I didn't know at the time that this was going to be what it was. Woke up to the alarm on the clock radio and my phone ringing, same time. Radio 4 said "gas leak." Phone call was from the Met, and it said "faked" and "bomb" and "Baker Street," and that was it.

Sherlock, I _ran_. Talk all they liked, it wasn't some random act of terrorism – not where you were concerned. You would have mocked me for it, but I ran. Got to Scotland Yard and SO15 was already all over it, wouldn't even let me into the room. Idiots, all of them (you'd agree), didn't even have a status report on potential victims. I was about to go down there myself – I was ready for 221B in ruins, digging through the rubble for you. I was going to find you. I thought I was going to find you dead.

I was halfway to the garage when I got a text telling me you were fine. Number withheld. Had to have been Mycroft. Only thing that kept me at the Yard long enough to get that bloody box with that phone and the pips and

What if I hadn't, Sherlock? What if we'd just never opened that damn box? What if this whole Moriarty thing had just never even started?

He'd have found a way to get to you.

If I keep telling myself that, one day I might even forgive myself for having called you in at all.

* * *

><p><span>6 April<span>

I keep expecting something to happen. Phone call, unmarked package. Bomb. All I keep thinking of is those buildings, gutted, and people's lives spread out across the street in rags, in ashes – and it didn't matter, did it, all those lives, because they were over anyway.

It was all right for you, you didn't seem to care. Wasn't your fault, was it? You played the game, you solved his puzzles. You couldn't help it that _this_ one was meant to get your attention, that _this_ one started to describe him to you. Wasn't your doing, but there it was anyway, little pieces of London devastated because Moriarty _wanted to say hello_.

Why'd you have to be so bloody _interesting_?

Had to do cleanup after the first bomb, you know. All right for the CTC to take over the case, come up with a load of nonsense as to who might be responsible and why, but when it comes to cleaning up the mess, might as well hand the job over to someone else. Broke every rule in the book, but I had my team out there right alongside CO3, recovering evidence, looking for anything they could find that didn't make sense, anything that might have meant something to you.

Too late, anyway, because you _went off on your own again_, you _bloody idiot_, and you

And you never learnt, never even thought, and now I'm writing you bloody _letters_ like I'm going mad, like some kind of bloody _therapy_ and you'll never get them and you'd ridicule every last one of them if you did, not that you wouldn't have found something to ridicule anyway.

It's over and Moriarty's dead and you're dead (dead dead DEAD, if I write it enough times it might start to make sense when it means _you_) and God knows why I'm sitting here looking over my shoulder every five minutes like he's going to come back and blow the Yard up just for me, just because today's the day. You know what it says on all the files next to your name? _Declared deceased in absentia_, it says, and it's just a toff way of saying 'dead.' Sherlock Holmes, dead. Sherlock, dead. You. Dead.

How many times do I have to write it before it doesn't feel like I'm killing you myself?

* * *

><p><span>25 April<span>

John was over at mine today. A year since you and he went away. I wish you could see what this has done to him. If nothing else could make you care, that might.

I wish you could see the grief. I wish you could see the guilt.

It's not his fault, none of it, but the only man who could convince him of that is gone.

Before you left

_died_, I'd never seen John angry. Didn't even really believe he could _get_ angry, a man like him. He kept telling me if I spent any amount of time around you two together, I'd believe it all right. Bit late for that now, isn't it?

He was angry at the beginning. At you, at me, himself. Didn't make any sense and no one deserved it, but that's what happened. I was, too – well, _angry_ is a bit of an understatement, and by God, it was warranted, but that's not John, that isn't who he is.

I think John's not quite sure how to be John right now.

* * *

><p><span>4 May<span>

I don't even know what to say to you.

Doesn't feel like a year you've been gone.

Dammit, Sherlock, after a year – I'm supposed to be doing _something_. I don't know what. Working harder (how much harder can I work?). Finding things to take up the time – hobbies that don't include "writing to your dead mate about things he never cared about even when he was alive." Look, there it is again. Dead. So easy to say at first and now it's been a year and if I say it now I might have to _believe_ it and how the hell, Sherlock, am I supposed to just sit here and say it like I mean it? _Dead. Dead a year._

A year, and when do I stop bloody needing you so much?


	3. Chapter 3

30 June

Closed a case today.

Put a man in handcuffs, laid three bodies to rest. Maybe not as fast as you might have. Definitely fewer dramatics. But it's done.

I can do this, Sherlock. I can do this without you. It's what I did before you came, and d'you know what? I was damn good at it then. I'm damn good at it now.

Of course I can do this without you. It's been a year, more than a year, and I still have my job. Believe it or not, my case-closed rate is decent. Enough to get me on the consideration list for DCI again. I'm going for a record, Sherlock, most times on the promotion list without ever actually getting it. It's all politics, you know. Going around glad-handing everyone with more pips on their shoulders. I don't play those games.

Of course I can do this without you.

* * *

><p><span>7 July<span>

Closed another case today working with West Midlands. Hell of a drive – killer had started in Birmingham, gone to Coventry, Bicester, Milton Keynes, this was a big one, Sherlock. Why the hell am I telling you? Because we put the bastard away, Sherlock, we did it. He'd been doing this for years – married couples, whole _families_, man was a bloody nightmare, and we got him.

It's a good day, Sherlock. Don't say that often anymore. Never said it often in the first place, but I think today might qualify.

I'm happy.

I think I'm happy.

The team wants to go out to the pub tonight. Swan & Edgar, right round the corner from 221B.

Think I'll go along.

* * *

><p>fuck<p>

that was a bloody awful decision. Should have known.

'm drunk, Sherlock maybe a bit. Don't care. went to walk home from the pub and walked past yours. Was going to go in there and find you and tell you

Happy, what the hell does that mean anyway, sherlock.

need another drink.

Were we happy? Shouting at each other and being nnoyed by each other and you thinking I couldn't do a bloody thing on my own (youwere wrong, I put away a child killer today) and me letting you walk all over my crime scenes, was that happy?

Shouldn't putting that bastard behind bars be happy?

Need another drink. need another dozen. Need toget everythin g out of my veins that can't just bloody well move on.

Be nothing left of me if i do.

Hurts not having you. Don't want it not to. Dn't want to forget you were brilliant fantastic amazing, John told you but I never did.

fucking hell, Sherlock, in vino veritas.

I think john loved you. I know I did.

i bloody loved you, Sherlock.

Fuck. I need another drink.

* * *

><p><span>8 July<span>

Christ.

It's a good thing you'll never see any of this.

Jesus, now I know why I don't go to pub night.

* * *

><p><span>9 July<span>

The hell of it is, everything I said is true.

* * *

><p><span>2 August<span>

John's been at the Met a year now. Asked him today if he missed working at the clinic, he just gave me this look like it was the stupidest question he'd ever heard. "I was never _at_ the clinic," he said, and of course he wasn't, you probably never even let him put in a full day's work without dragging him off to – I don't know, defuse a bomb or track down a rare Cuban cigar or buy a box full of ears or something.

Oh, God, the ears. I'd forgotten about them until now. Probably for the best, too. Boxes of ears – very Not Good, Sherlock. You hated that case, I remember, wouldn't even come with me to see it finished off. Didn't stop you asking for the ears when it was over, you bloody great wanker.

I told the DCI I'd no idea where they'd gone.

I think I must have loved you even then.

What the hell did you want _ears_ for?

* * *

><p><span>8 September<span>

My birthday again. Second one since you've been gone. Not that you would show up with a cake and a bottle of wine when you were here, so I don't see why it matters, but it does.

Is that what it's going to be from now on, then? Everything separated into before-Sherlock and after-Sherlock?

I don't even remember what before-Sherlock was like. You do that, you know, just sort of come in and take over wherever you are. I'm not sure you even realize you do it. It's impossible not to be caught up.

Before-Sherlock was probably a hell of a lot more _peaceful_.

Then you showed up and started flouncing about my crime scenes (shut up, you do flounce) and suddenly it was "the killer this" and "the boot print on the floor that" and Anderson actually writing a resignation letter because you wouldn't bloody leave him alone. Of course, the resignation letter he wrote was for _you_, but I completely sympathize. Told him you couldn't quit if you weren't technically employed, you should've seen the face he made.

Shouldn't have let you in on the crime scenes at all, you know. Of course you know, you always do, but you knew I cared more about having the cases solved, getting murderers off the street. You knew you could play that angle and it worked.

But then you started going off on your own, Sherlock, and that was not okay – these were _my_ cases and I needed to be in control of them. Not that anyone is ever in control where you're concerned. And I was worried, Sherlock, I _worried_ when you ran off, I worried when I couldn't find you and no one knew where you were, I

You have no idea what it's like to care about someone like you. No idea, I pulled you off a filthy street and watched you shiver and choke and try to tear at your own skin and every time you were out of my sight I wondered if that was why and if you'd come back and what state you'd be in if you did.

Maybe I ought to have told you.

And later when you started going off for other reasons, I still worried, you know? Only now it was about which killer you were going to find and whether they were going to find you first and if you were going to end up in the hospital (as if you'd go) or worse and how would I ever know? Thank God John came along, because he couldn't stop you but at least I knew someone'd tell him if something happened to you. And he'd tell me.

Turned out John Watson wasn't going to let anything happen to you.

I'd thank him for that, but I don't think there would be much point now.

After-Sherlock is

You wouldn't understand, you don't _do_ people. After-Sherlock is going to crime scenes and not looking over my shoulder to make sure you aren't disturbing evidence just to torment Anderson. It's suddenly freezing when something goes wrong and checking to find you and remembering a second too late that you're not there to need looking after, not by me or John. It's falling asleep on a case file at my desk because I know if I could just go by 221B and ask you, you'd give it all to me neatly solved and call me an idiot besides, and then I could go home. It's finding my warrant card in my pocket when I need it and wishing it weren't there, wishing you'd taken it again. It's not needing you but at the same time _needing_ you and being relieved every time anything dangerous happens because I know you won't be involved and then remembering that you'd want nothing more than to be involved and that

that I wish you _were_ involved, you mad bastard.

Christ. Sorry.

Wish I could say I've had a few too many, but I haven't. I really am this bloody maudlin.

Sod it, I'm going to bed. Might try again in the morning.

* * *

><p><span>9 September<span>

No, I bloody won't. Said more than enough as it is. What the hell was all that about, then?

Ought to lock this bloody thing away.

* * *

><p><span>19 December<span>

Never been a worse time to be a Scotland Yard detective, I don't think.

Here it's nearly Christmas again and _five_ major cases open at once for the team. Five. Jesus, how do all the killers do it without crashing into each other? Do they have some sort of rota? And that's just my team – the other MITs aren't much better off, nearly nine hundred people spending time on bloody serial killers instead of with their families. Least I haven't got that problem to worry about.

Is there some sort of link? Something you'd see if you were here? I'd like to think there's not, because I'd like to think I'm fairly competent (you'd scoff, I know, but that's the upshot of your not being here, isn't it, I can say what I like) and if there were a connection, we'd have found it. But at the same time, I keep wondering what you'd say. Besides calling us all stupid, of course.

Not too bloody helpful with your methods, either, are you? "I observe everything, I deduce everything." That's fantastic – until someone actually wants to _do_ it, don't you think you left a few steps out, there, Sherlock?

"If you need assistance, contact me," you said, right under your so-called methods. Well, here you are then. We sure as hell could use your help right now.

Yeah, right. Back to work. Happy Christmas.

* * *

><p><span>25 December<span>

You'd've made a good James Bond.

No, sod that, you'd have made a terrible James Bond. But you'd have looked fantastic in a tux.

I'm thinking maybe _The Living Daylights_. You seem the Timothy Dalton type. John's coming over later, after Harry's. We'll see if he agrees.

Might not ask him about the tux.

* * *

><p><span>6 January<span>

Sneaks up on you, you know?

Your birthday again. My birthday, Christmas, your birthday, and suddenly it's half a year and I hardly noticed it go by. Count it off in murders, seven files stamped completed and three new ones opened; yeah, it's easy to see then how long it's been. Not quite so easy while you're living it.

Still miss you. Might stop telling you about it one of these days.


	4. Chapter 4

31 March

Went to see that therapist of John's today. Absolute bloody waste of time, God knows why he thought I ought to go. _He_ hasn't seen her in years, far as I know. Said he didn't need that kind of thing with the mad life you two had, said he couldn't imagine better therapy than that. Didn't say what he does now instead, and I didn't ask.

She said the second year's worse than the first, and even worse for people who "lose someone under traumatic circumstances." Traumatic circumstances, she says. Bloody hell, Sherlock, your whole life was a "traumatic circumstance." That's why you were so damned _good_ for us, for me and John. Like moths to a flame. Cold, sociopathic, _ridiculous_ flame.

Told her I was nearly done with the second year, thanks, and I was doing just fine. Think she thought I was "resisting." Christ, everything she said belongs inside quotation marks. Bloody shrinks. Like she could open up my mind and look inside, right?

We both know there's only one person who could do that.

* * *

><p><span>6 April<span>

Two years since the pool and I'm still looking over my shoulder for – _him_. I know he's dead, I've seen the body. It's more than I had for you.

So why, Sherlock, am I still waiting for the punchline to his sadistic joke? Why am I still wondering what he's going to do next; why am I still sitting here, taut as a bloody bowstring, waiting for something to go up in flames around me?

Man like Moriarty wouldn't work alone, and there's no way the men we got were all he had, so where are the rest of them and what the hell are they planning, Sherlock?

Why's this so goddamn terrifying when I know, I _know_ he's dead?

Why can't it be you I keep thinking I see when I know perfectly well that you're both

not here anymore.

Sometimes I do think I see you. Sometimes I think it's him. Two years dead and gone and I've still got some sort of fucked-up psychological hangup over you both.

How pathetic is that, Sherlock?

No wonder John sent me to that bloody trick cyclist of his.

* * *

><p><span>4 May<span>

Two years today.

Still doesn't feel like it.

Got plans for today. Not going to work is involved. And a _very_ good bottle of whisky. Yeah, I know, falling off the wagon and all that bollocks, but you fell off a bloody _mountain_ today, so I don't think you've got much to say about it.

I'm putting this away first, though. Learnt my lesson last time.

* * *

><p><span>22 June<span>

You know what today is, Sherlock? It's a weird one. Today, years ago, is the first time your brother ever kidnapped me. Strangest thing to remember, isn't it, except that it isn't, because he did it again today.

He asked me, "How are you doing without my brother, Inspector?" and I laughed – Mycroft isn't used to being laughed at, is he? – because shouldn't he have been asking that _two years ago_? What bloody good does it do now?

Said I was doing just fine, and I am. Case-closed record and all. I'd have thought he could find that out for himself, so I don't know why he pulled me off the street just to ask that.

I _am_ fine, Sherlock. Twenty-seven MITs in Homicide Command and my one's still the best, even without you. Blades got promoted back to Championship this year, might see a turnaround under new management (as if you cared). See John every couple of days at work; sometimes we even go out for a pint afterward (when we're not there until bloody three o'clock in the morning, which – surprisingly – happens a hell of a lot less when you're not there with us).

See – fine.

Losing

bugger it, it's not like you don't already know

Losing the most important thing in my life hasn't destroyed me.

Much.

* * *

><p><span>8 September<span>

I hardly write to you anymore, do I?

I don't know what that means.

I don't need you any less.

I don't miss you any less.

I suppose it's just that life happens and it goes on happening, but not to you. You wouldn't be interested anyway. It's… _dull_.

And there's a lot of paperwork.

My birthday. _Again._ How does it keep coming round? Have I stopped understanding how time works? Had to write something today, though.

Wouldn't have felt right to spend the day without you.

* * *

><p><span>27 November<span>

John thinks it's bloody hilarious that I keep this thing. He calls it "my blog" and wants to read it. Won't leave me alone.

Like hell I'm letting him see this.

He doesn't even write on his _own_ blog anymore. I know, I've looked. It's ages since his last entry. You were still

Anyway, I don't know what the hell he's got to be so smug about, he had a blog first. (This is still not a blog.) And the way he used to write about you, well. He hasn't got a leg to stand on, and _his_ blog went to the whole of Scotland Yard.

Your face when you found that out. Priceless.

When did it become all right to laugh at you again?

Why does that make me want you back so much more?

* * *

><p><span>24 December<span>

Christmas without a case? I don't believe it. It's damn near an impossibility – _improbability_, you'd say. I'd suspect Mycroft's doing, but I can't imagine why he'd bother. The team's happy about it, anyway.

John's asked me to Harry's this year. I'd better go, I think he could use the company out there. Don't think he likes it there all that much, but where else is he going to go? I haven't exactly got much to offer him instead.

Well, maybe _From Russia with Love_. What d'you think?

God. As if you'd know. You've probably never even _seen_ James Bond, have you?

Should've thought of that earlier. John and I would have set you to rights.

There you are, then. Job for you if there's an afterlife. Watch some bloody Bond films, would you?

You can start with _From Russia with Love_.

* * *

><p><span>6 January<span>

Happy birthday, then. John came round. Said he hoped I'd recovered from Christmas by now. Git.

He brought the skull. We toasted you. A few times.

All right, a lot of times.

The skull's named Blofeld now.

* * *

><p><span>17 February<span>

You know what happened today? Something I'll never forget, Sherlock. Not even after all the cases you took for me and all your private ones besides, not even if I'm a DI for twenty more years (and I'd bloody well better not be – I've earned that third pip a dozen times if I've earned it once).

Today, Sherlock Holmes' deductions were wrong.

You remember that case? Bet if you were here, you'd just sniff and find something scathing but clever to say. But that's the beauty of the written word, Sherlock, you'll never see it and you can't argue with it. And anyway, you _were_ wrong, and I didn't take advantage of it nearly enough at the time.

Got years to make up for lost time now, I suppose.

I could tell you that I closed a case today, but that's just rubbing salt into the wound, isn't it?

… Closed a case today, Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Sorry. But not really sorry. I'm having too much fun picturing your reaction to be <em>really<em> sorry.

God, I love you, you know that?

* * *

><p><span>29 March<span>

Should it make me feel guilty that I don't know what to write?

I try to tell you so much. Try to tell you everything, every single case and every single time I see John and every single bloody thing that happens, but whenever I try, I just sit here like an idiot and can't think of the words. I don't know, Sherlock. It's all so stupid and mundane and you would be so _bored_.

Your life was never like that. Your life was brilliant.

I haven't got anything brilliant to tell you. Maybe I should just stop.

* * *

><p><em>Really, Lestrade, your password protection is even worse than John's, if such a thing is possible.<em>

_I would tell you how many times I've read through everything you've written, but it seems that to do so would be an exercise in pointlessness. Surely you'll understand when I explain, and if not, I would really prefer to elaborate in person._

_By now, you must have surmised that I am somewhat less dead than I have led you to believe._

_I understand that the written word is perhaps a poor medium in which to address most of the things you've said, but as this is how you began, I feel it only fitting to continue. And you know that I've never been particularly inclined to words of a… personal nature in any case._

_John says that the first thing I should tell you is that I am sorry. I'm not apologizing for my departure, though the circumstances were unfortunate. Nor am I apologizing for the fact that I stayed away, nor for the deception, painful as it may have been. All of it was necessary. But I do apologize for your grief. That was something I had not anticipated._

_I wonder why you waited until you believed I was gone to begin surprising me._

_John says this is not how one goes about apologizing. I've already apologized. I don't see why I would need to continue doing so._

_A statement that has elicited no small amount of profanity from John._

_All of this is irrelevant. There was something else I wanted to address._

_"Love" is a word with many values. It's difficult to define. I need more data on your use of the word. I also need to establish my own position on the matter, which has taken some considerable thought._

_Much as it pains me to admit it, this is… not really my area. The best I can offer you is this:_

_If love is what I think it is; if love is disappointment at the circumstances into which I – we – have been forced; if love is having gone through every word of these entries daily for any tiny detail that could be deduced from them; if love is regret at three missed years; if love is hating myself for having caused you pain…_

_If any of that is love, then perhaps the sentiment is mutual._

_When you read this, I hope you will permit me the opportunity to find out._

_You know where to find me._

_SH_


End file.
